


Trying Hard to Grow Up

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2013 [10]
Category: Glee
Genre: Episode: s05e06 Movin' Out, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2013. Blaine wants to be ready for New York City and the life he sees Kurt leading. But is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying Hard to Grow Up

Blaine shifted impatiently, his hands fisted in the pockets of his teal windbreaker as Kurt quietly darted about the kitchen making a quick shopping list on his phone. It was hard to keep quiet, but he knew not to wake Sam to what was sure to be a killer hangover, if how he felt was anything to go by. Note to self: don’t try keeping up with Santana and a bottle—or more—of wine. He had done what he could for his buddy—a grape soda and a pile of Advil sat on the end table next to the boy’s blonde head.

“Ready?” Kurt smiled at him brightly and took the shopping bags down from their hooks by the door. Blaine must have looked conflicted, because Kurt brushed an almost-there kiss to his cheek and crossed to Rachel’s room. After a whispered conversation, he returned with Rachel trailing close behind. She shooed Blaine through the door, embracing him in the hallway. “Oh, Blaine. We’ll be fine. I do know how to take care of hungry boys, you know. Just go—go explore Bushwick!”

Blaine waited until the door closed behind her and followed his boyfriend down the stairs toward the street.  
“Sam isn’t only your friend, B. She is fond of him, you know,” Kurt laughed.

“I don’t know, Kurt, I’m not sure Sam will forgive me if she actually makes him sit down to her vegan omelet.”

“Hey, we’re in hipster land now. Go easy on the vegans.”

“Honestly, I know it wouldn’t kill any of us to eat more veggie stuff. But why can’t she just stick with, like, muesli and coconut milk yogurt?”

“Instead of her gray omelet?”

Blaine shuddered, remembering. “Or her extra-chewy brownies. Face it. She absolutely has to make it big so she can hire a decent chef. But you know, she’s not wrong about one thing—this is a good time for you to finally show me more of your corner of the world.”

Kurt slipped his hand through Blaine’s arm and squeezed. “Soon to be our corner of the world, fiancé. But yes, and it’s such a good day for it, too.” The late spring morning air was damp after last night’s rain, and the street gleamed black with puddles, looking fresh and new.

Kurt pushed on down the street, chattering, pointing out the bakery with the best “apology for using up the hot water” cookies, the Chinese takeout that “sadly has way too much of our food money, but their Kung Pao chicken is just that good.” And the taqueria the next block over. Blaine at first barely registered it at all, distracted instead by watching the way the sun slanting down a cross street found Kurt’s freckles as the boys waited at a light, or the smile that came and went as he greeted shopkeepers or examined fruits and vegetables at the farmer’s truck by the tiny vestpocket park. Kurt caught him at it once or twice, he could tell—the knowing smile, the way he lifted his chin ever higher in challenge—.

He was doing that now, by the park. “Oh, God, you’re gonna quiz me on what I remember of all this, aren’t you? Kurt!”

“Well, this will be your home soon, you know? What if I needed you to run to the CVS on your way home? Or if it’s pouring and Santana asks you to meet her with an umbrella at the subway stop with the bus shelter—that’s the one back there,” he gestured over his shoulder, “not the one just down the street from the loft. Or what if—“

“Okay, okay, I promise to do my best to learn the streets so that I can be a fully competent adult when I get here.” Maybe he sounded a little petulant. Okay, if the way Kurt’s eyebrows reached for his hairline was anything to go by, more than a little.

But all Kurt said was, “Right, then. So can you get us home from here?”

Well, he had to know the answer to that was NO. Except—this park—had he seen it in October? No, that one was closer to NYADA. “Um,” he spun around, trying to get his bearings. “It’s morning, so the sun’s coming from the east, and that means that we crossed that street where your highlights looked so good from the South, and so … I have no idea where we are.” He collapsed, defeated, onto a bench by the park fence.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Kurt cooed in fake sympathy. “I didn’t mean to discourage you. But, you know, if you’d actually been paying attention to the scenery…”

“Oh, like you don’t know why,” Blaine purred, looking Kurt up and down with a smile. That was rewarded with a blush, and then Kurt piled his purchases on the bench next to Blaine.

“Here, maybe you can watch these bags for me while I go check the strawberries—and I promise to not notice you frantically pulling up Google Maps on your phone,” he called back over his shoulder as he headed to the curb.

So okay, that was a good idea. With the App opened on his phone, Blaine started looking around to see how his surroundings compared to the map. He was getting a better sense of where he was, but he was also noticing that, well, the buildings looked tired and old as the newness of the morning gave way to a cloudy noontime. The windows of the old warehouse-looking building across the street were boarded up. He turned to look at the little park. It was muddy and dirty, the scant flowers stepped-on and broken. And was that a used condom on the ground?

He drew his knees closer together, folding his hands holding the phone in his lap. The gutter next to the truck had dirty water standing in it, and the shiny streets now seemed slick with oil. He guessed Kurt hadn’t been joking about watching drug deals go down in these parks. It sure was a different picture of New York City than the one in Blaine’s head, that was for sure. He thought of all the talks over the years, lying in his bed while on his phone Kurt spun dreams and tales of a glamorous, glittering city, the bright lights and the beautiful people. And it wasn’t entirely wrong, Blaine knew. He pictured the skating rink at Christmas, the clichéd bright lights of Broadway, the beautiful buildings he had toured yesterday at Columbia.

But the city was this real place: sometimes dirty and gritty, sometimes overwhelming and noisy, sometimes sparkling and elegant.

As he fiddled with his phone, trying to trace the path they had followed so far this morning, he heard Kurt’s voice over the city noise, haggling over the price for the berries. There was enjoyment in his tone; Kurt did love a bargain. But this was different from trying to get a steal on a vintage brooch at an estate sale or scoring a deal on cashmere on E-Bay. This was work.

All around the loft Blaine found evidence of that work: the lists of class schedules, rehearsal times, auditions, and work rosters pinned to the bulletin board by the door; the chore chart on the refrigerator, with the frantic sticky notes begging for milk or eggs or “some actual, honest-to-God fruit”; the nasty polyester of the diner uniforms; the jar of wadded-up tip money labeled “groceries only”; the side table in Kurt’s bedroom scattered with sketches and layouts for Vogue. They were all reminders of how hard the three roommates worked to make this whole adventure possible. Sure, they had made it to NYADA, and heck, Rachel was actually ON Broadway, or soon would be. But that didn’t mean the end of struggling, or even the end of penny pinching.

He found himself wishing he could make it all easier for them—for all of them. He thought of the applications mailed, to USC and UCLA, to Columbia and NYU. He was no longer truly tempted by Cooper’s rapturous descriptions of life in LA—not since the engagement, anyway. Those applications had been sent in a moment of weakness, as Cooper spun his own tales over the phone line during those bleak days of last fall when New York—and Kurt—seemed so unattainable.

But the ones for the other New York schools—they were the end result of late night conversations with his dad and of countless free periods at school, starting last spring, to be honest, working with Ms. Pillsbury on his college essay and the Common App. He had to talk to Kurt about this more seriously, make him understand that if Columbia said yes, he might say no to NYADA.

His stomach knotted as he thought of changing Kurt’s plans for them. But he wanted so for this to be okay, and maybe his dad’s way would be better. He just didn’t know. If he was being really honest with himself, he didn’t know what he wanted at all. Except Kurt—first and always. And, yeah, performing—that was a given. But did he need to study in a conservatory program like NYADA to do it? And did they have to live way out here past Brooklyn instead of up near Central Park—closer to Broadway, right? What if he could make that happen with his yes? Or was all of this just stupid, the thoughts of a kid who didn’t really know what he was doing?

Story of his life, right? It was all too much for his already-sore head this early in the day, that was for sure. He dropped that heavy head down, pocketed the phone, and scrubbed through his hair with his left hand. He let his eyes slip closed as he rested his head on his right hand.

“Hey,” Kurt was back with the strawberries, and the tentative note in his voice made Blaine aware of how freaked-out he must look. He carefully smoothed out his expression before looking up, smiled, and jumped to his feet. “Ready to go?”

“Lead on, sir,” Kurt smirked.

“Oh no, I think I really need to get a free pass this time.” He took a deep breath, but keeping a teasing tone, broached the subject foremost on his mind. “Besides, why would I get to know THIS neighborhood? Weren’t we going to get a penthouse in the 80s, up by Central Park?”

“In your dreams, buster!”

He grasped Kurt’s arm as they turned the corner. “Oh, but they’re such good dreams!”

Kurt laughed, then, in his best Sam imitates Dumbledore voice, intoned, ”It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that, little Harry.”

Blaine trailed to a halt, then sighed; and though he tried to drag another smile up for Kurt, this time he knew his worry showed. Or maybe he just looked queasy, because Kurt immediately turned caregiver: “Hey, Blaine, sweetie. Is everything okay? I knew I should have stopped Santana from making that sangria. And now I’ve dragged you all over town without getting you any of your greasy hangover remedies.”

Kurt’s expression was wide open, his smile gentle, his limbs loose, so happy. He was so the wonderful guy Blaine wanted to marry that his first instinct was to just let it pass, to avoid talking about his worries, about the stuff his dad said, and just let Kurt take care of him. But wasn’t not talking what got them into that whole mess in the fall in the first place? He drew a deep breath, then said,” Yeah. Maybe we could drop this stuff off and check on Sam? But then, we could get a greasy burger. And we could talk. I think—no, I know—there’s some stuff I want to run by you. Is that okay?”

Kurt shifted his bag to his left arm and pulled Blaine tight to him with his right. “It’s always okay, Blaine. Yeah, I guess we’ve had enough exploring Bushwick for one day. Time to explore inside that head of yours, fiancé.”

Blaine figured it was all going to be all right. He just had to remember to keep talking—.


End file.
